


You'll Never Sink When You Are With Me

by sparklylulz (sparklyulz)



Category: The Hobbit (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-28
Updated: 2012-12-28
Packaged: 2017-11-22 17:11:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/612218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparklyulz/pseuds/sparklylulz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erebor was, in a great many ways, completely different than the Shire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You'll Never Sink When You Are With Me

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry that this snowballed into something ridiculous.

Erebor was, in a great many ways, completely different than the Shire.  
  
Bilbo thinks he probably could live here the rest of his life and never understand how it was laid out or how many treasures it held or why dwarves refused to eat with a fork. Between the lack of washing and amount of sweat produced, he did his very best to suggest to the king that soap should be made a compulsory part of the kingdom, but Thorin seemed personally offended by the idea of rubbing lavender scented sticks on his body.  
  
Granted, it wasn’t all bad and confusing. Upon his arrival from Bag End with Thorin he was promptly draped in an exquisite rabbit fur cape and given a lovely golden ring with a large emerald set into the center. Over the next few months more gifts poured in: a bag of moonstones, a beautiful silk dressing gown, and a dainty silver crown were all left in his rooms by people Thorin referred to as “servants” and Bilbo referred to as “friends”.  
  
The great king didn’t seem to be around very often, his throne sat empty most of the time, but there was a smaller seat fitted next to it shortly after the hobbit arrived. Bilbo always assumed it was for a steward to watch over Erebor or maybe even Thorin’s heir someday, but no one ever occupied it. Instead eyes would follow him when he walked past the throne bridge every day as if the other dwarves expected him to sit and prop his feet up.  
  
“Master Bilbo, King Thorin Oakenshield requests your presence in his private dining hall this evening.” Ori stated late one morning, bowing deeply in Bilbo’s presence, (something most of the dwarves had taken to doing when he was around), which felt highly unnecessary to the halfling.  
  
“Um... okay.” Bilbo offered eloquently, “And there’s no need to bow.”  
  
Ori just grinned his crooked smile and backed out of the room, placing a new set of velvet trousers on Bilbo’s small, custom fitted, hobbit-sized bed. He eyed the new clothes wearily before going to ask someone to help him get some warm bathwater.  
  
Even if the king under the mountain refused scented soap, Bilbo Baggins wouldn’t be caught dead at an engagement smelling like the less-than-savory Took side of his family.  
  
He’d definitely put on a few pounds in the months he’d taken up living in Erebor, a little stomach now poked out from under the golden waist coat he’d been given upon his arrival. He carefully took off his expensive clothing and stepped into the warm bath he’d so looked forward to. He spent an extra hour in the water, bathing himself slowly, spoiling himself until the water was cold before he stepped out and towelled himself off.  
  
Time was a difficult concept in Thorin’s kingdom, but Bilbo was beginning to better perceive the hours as they passed.  
  
Dressing himself in some of his finer clothing took longer than he expected. He pulled on the beautiful trousers he’d been left and a silver waistcoat lastly. Looking down at his stubby he fingers he took in the gold and green band on his middle finger and noticed the silver crown sitting on his dresser. He gingerly reached out and placed it upon his drying curls. The gentle curves in the silver accented his pointed ears perfectly and ended in a small peak at the center of his forehead.  
  
All in all, Bilbo felt considerably more like a royal than a Baggins of Bag End.  
  
It was evident Thorin had been pacing for quite sometime before Bilbo made his entrance. The king was wearing his familiar chain mail and heavy boots, his grey streaked hair falling around his shoulders.  
  
“Don’t you ever take your battle armor off?” Bilbo asked in place of a greeting and the Dwarf shot him a glare.  
  
“This is not my battle armor, Master Baggins,” He broke into a small smile, “It is much lighter.”  
  
“Can you please stop calling me Master Baggins, it’s bad enough that the others do it.” Bilbo grimaced, strolling the length of the hall.  
  
Thorin’s private dining chamber was much more intimate than any other place Bilbo had ventured to in the mountain. Thorin looked less like a menacing angst ridden king and more like a comfortable dwarf in the warm light of a fire.  
  
“Bilbo, then,” Thorin conceded, “Please take a seat, we will be served shortly.”  
  
As if conjured, several servants appeared holding pints of ale and smoked ham with large baskets of bread and plates stacked with cakes and potatoes. The feast laid out before them made even the hobbit feel a little faint. He twisted around and thanked each servant adamantly and even asked several about their wives and children. Thorin watched on in silence, but was clearly amused, still tearing his food apart with his fingers.  
  
Bilbo pointed grabbed a fork and began carefully cutting his food into proper pieces and ignored Thorin when he rolled his eyes at his friend.  
  
After they had eaten the table was cleared quickly and Thorin stood, having spoken less than fifty words all night, and Bilbo stood too, assuming he was to take his leave.  
  
“Bilbo... I have... an important matter to discuss with you.” If Bilbo hadn’t known better he might have thought that Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King Under the Mountain, was actually _nervous_.  
  
“Oh, um, do you?” Perhaps Thorin was going to ask him to leave or to stop apologizing to everyone who waited on him during the day.  
  
“As you have no doubt seen over the past few months, there have been many changes to Erebor since you arrived,” the Dwarf began, “I have tried to make you as comfortable as possible as I know you left your home at my request to come and stay in my mountain.”  
  
Bilbo had no idea where this was going, for he had left Bag End of his own volition. The Shire was for safe hobbits who didn’t mind a life without adventure. Erebor was, without a doubt, his home now.  
  
“However, you have not made any action to show that you reciprocate my actions - you barely wear your crown and my company informs me you have not been seated in your throne once-”  
  
“Wait a second, my _what,_ exactly?” Bilbo asked, a hand raised in protest, mouth gaped.  
  
Thorin gave a confused look, “Surely you have noticed the new throne, I had it fitted many lunar cycles ago.”  
  
“Yes! But I thought it was for a steward or an heir or something! What did I ever do to deserve a throne?” Bilbo asked, more to himself than to the Dwarf standing opposite him.  
  
Thorin took a step back and stared at the hobbit for several seconds and slowly a conclusion seemed to dawn on his face.  
  
“You... do not know. You have misunderstood many things.” He muttered to himself, and turned to gaze at the hearth instead.  
  
Bilbo moved to stand next to him, the flames reflected in the silver wound through his curls.  
  
“I thought that is why you came to Erebor.” Thorin said plainly, still not answering any questions his company might have had.  
  
“I came to Erebor because Bag End was no longer a place for me, I came because here because this was the one place I knew I could go.” He answered back, “Erebor is now my home.”  
  
“No, it is _our_ home, Bilbo Baggins. I asked you here with the intention of...,” Thorin didn’t look Bilbo in the eye, “Was it not obvious I intended for you to be my betrothed?”  
  
 _“What?”_  
  
“I showered you in the gems of my fathers. I gave you clothes hand sewn by the dwarves of the third age. I had a crown forged for only you. I gave you the most precious gift left to me by my mother when she was slain.” He glanced down at Bilbo’s middle finger. “My people bow down to you. I do not understand how you could not know. Or perhaps you were too modest and this is your refusal?”  
  
After what possibly might be the most words Bilbo had ever heard Thorin string together in one sitting, the king turned to him, “If you are refusing me, I will understand, Master Hobbit. I would not force you to leave Erebor or to give up your possessions here for they were given happily.”  
  
Bilbo sat in one of the chairs around the wide table, staring up at Thorin in disbelief.  
  
“You want to... to marry _me_? Why?” It’s an important and fair question, he thought, and Thorin sighed.  
  
“I admit, when we first met I did not give you a second glance. Then you saved my life and my people and you changed me. You gave a lost son a purpose. You made a broken prince into a willing king with your gentle kindness. I owe you many things, Bilbo Baggins, and I can offer you the spoils of a great kingdom or even my heart upon a silver platter if that is what you desire of me.”  
  
The smaller of the two stood shakily, raising his hand into his line of vision, the golden ring rested comfortably on his finger.  
  
“This was my engagement ring? It was your mother’s?” He stuttered.  
  
Thorin nods, “The rings of my grandfather are not the proper size for the hand of a hobbit. Balin suggested I give you this ring instead, it is all that is left of her.”  
  
Bilbo always had prided himself on being a simple Shireling. He enjoyed good food, good drink, good tobacco, and a warm scarf on occasion. Now he sat in the presence of a nervous king who asked him to become one of the wealthiest beings in all of Middle Earth.  
  
“I accept.” He answered softly. “I accept your ring and your proposal.”  
  
It was Thorin’s jaw that dropped this time, “Do not answer me lightly, Bilbo, for dwarves are bonded for life. If you do not want this, I will not be angered.”  
  
Bilbo calmly smiled, “Earlier I said I came to Erebor because I knew it was the one place I could go. This is not wholly true; I’m sure I would have been welcomed in Rivendell or Minas Tirith or anywhere else in Middle Earth I wished to go. I came to Erebor because you were here and I did not wish to live out the rest of my life away from you. I have done many great things by your side and I will continue to do so.” He stepped forward, placing a hand on Thorin’s chest, “Hobbits are not like dwarves, you see, we do not hide our intentions in actions. We prefer to say our emotions and most of all we do not stop loving often or easily.”  
  
When Bilbo finished he looked up to his king, and Thorin, in a state of wonder, leaned down to press his nose against the hobbit’s, moving his face back and forth to rub their noses together. His breath warmed Bilbo’s cheeks and after a moment the scent of lavender wafted into his senses.  
  
“I knew you liked my soap, you’re just stubborn.” Bilbo laughed gently.  
  
“I am king of Erebor, stubbornness is in my blood.” Thorin whispered, eyes closed.  
  
They did not move from each other for a long while.

 

-

  
They are married on Durin’s Day, and the entire company along with Gandalf are amongst the crowd. Thranduil and Elrond both journey to Erebor and watch as Thorin and Bilbo wed under the joining of the moon and sun in the sky.  
  
A raucous party follows in which the Dwarves hurl a lot of unnecessary insults at the Elves and Bilbo is pronounced the Second of the Kings Under the Mountain, which feels very official and too important for a small halfling.  
  
There are many songs and dances and Bilbo sits in his throne for the first time.  
  
Thorin wears his golden crown proudly, one hand wrapped around Bilbo’s all night. Many gifts are left at their feet but the best of all is the small knitted sweater and scarf Ori blushingly hands to Bilbo.  
  
They kiss once after the celebration as their people and guests chant progressively louder. Bilbo  has to step on the tips of his toes to press his mouth to Thorin’s, his smooth chin lost in the wild beard of his husband.  
  
“I feel home at last,” Thorin smiles, forehead pressed to Bilbo’s.


End file.
